


Month One: Some Backseat Bingo on the Way to Hell

by TheTyrantOfTyrus



Series: Four Months: A B-Team Quartet [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), The Wastes
Genre: B-Team, Cliff-hangers, Epic, FOUR MONTHS, Friendship, Gen, Ghoul, Multi, OC's - Freeform, Post-Apocalyptic, Sexual Tension, Tribal, post apocalyptic, raider
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 23:58:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1283584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTyrantOfTyrus/pseuds/TheTyrantOfTyrus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A wise man said, "War never changes." He was right, of course. After decades of wars over the scraps of the world, humanity finally had the guts to end what it had began. As nuclear warheads flew overhead, the world, as it was once known as, was decimated. But in the Texas Commonwealth, the Vaults were never built, as Texas was not considered suitable as subjects for the malicious tests of Vault-Tec. Also, it seems that most of the vast countryside never truly felt the full force. But that didn't stop the radiation. In this strange land, an uneasy fellowship was forged in the form of the friendship of Glides-On-Ruin, Javier Crowe, Eli Toppins, and Max Gersten. It is a strange wonder how they ever became loyal friends. A pacifist tribal, determined to save his tribes. An ex-raider, counting how many days until he kills again, and keeping track of his high scores. A burnt up narcissist with a thirst for revenge. And a ghoul with a knife, a bottle of expired mustard, and a love for human flesh. Now, they're headed north for unknown lands, for unknown dangers save for one. To help a friend in need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The Prodigal Son Returns

**Month One: Some Backseat Bingo on the Way to Hell**

**Prologue: The Prodigal Son Returns**

Through the slow waters of the broad river, Glides-on-Ruins found them much calmer than the deadly waters of the Gulf Coast. He had crossed the wide oceans over to the wetlands of the Magic Kingdom and he had found nothing. The tribal wasted months on the murky depths of the oceans and bogs. He alone, save for his bow, quiver, arrows, canoe, and paddle, had braved drowning under the jade waters that teemed with radiation. Radiation. That invisible fire that burnt without burning, morphed men into beasts and rotted the mind with evil. Was he mad at his own failure? No. Solemnly, he lived with it. But there was no other choice now. Autumn was nearing, and thus Winter. Winter was the death for the Rapids.

 

It was August 8th.

 

Ten Days before the Journey.

 

Left and right, he sliced his paddle into the water. Port and starboard, he beat the shallow river to push himself forward against the current. Exhausted, his arms were burnt with weeks of hard labor and adrenaline pumping through his body. Glides' eyes drifted around scouring the earth and the river. A melancholic thing, the river was solemnly running it's murky, mucus green waters towards the coast several miles south. The desert that surrounded the river bloomed with the hardy plants of the wasteland; with barks and stocks a dingy brown, flowering buds that seemed to be bleached of brightness, and the occasional green leaf that hanged desperately to soak up the sun. It was hard to imagine what it must be like in the North, where trees were not the stoic corpses they were here.

As he steered his canoe around a sloped bend, a faint memory struck him. He sighed when he remembered the fresh greens of the trees and the warm reds, yellows, and oranges that dominated the canopies during the autumn. He believed he was nearing his destination, telling from the faded blue line on the thick, creased parchment that acted as his map. While not exactly as accurate as he would want, it served its purpose.

The map outlined ancient roads, towns, and rivers of the eastern half of the United States. Or at least, what was left of it. Among the faded black and blue and green lines that dotted, ran, and jumped around the map, there was also the thick lines and blobs of ink that Glides-on-Ruins had placed to signify towns, trails, and other locations during his travels. But his eyes traced over to the southern most commonwealth on the map. The Texas Commonwealth. Placing a finger he made sure that this river was for certain going to take him over to Bucket Town.

He had entered the wide delta of this river a few miles east of Houston, up the Sabine River. From there he would strike up to the Toledo Bend, than head east. From there, he could probably hitch a ride with some Rangers. But he was near Louisiana territory anyway, and that mean two things. Lobbers and Swampers, maybe if he was lucky he'd even see a mutant come up and try to kill him as well. But for now, all the Tribal had to do now was rest. That, and paddle. Paddle. And paddle.


	2. Chapter One: Birds of a Feather

Chapter One: Birds of a Feather

August 15th

A thousand rays of sunlight shimmered from the sharp corners of his badge. Emblazoned on it was the shield of the Texas Rangers. _We guard, we serve, we protect._ Yes, the proud status symbol of any lawman and bounty hunter on the eastern half of Texas. It was a bit wasted on Javier Crowe, however. He was much more civil servant than lawman, nowadays. He dug up ditches for those poor souls who had found their lives worth some measly stack of molerat hides, he dug up ditches for those poor souls who thought they were going to be the next Wyatt Earp, he dug up ditches for kings and peasants, both.

But currently, he was busy being high. A rose of smoke bloomed from the end of his Torch pipe. Precariously petals pranced about, reaching and grasping out to the dusty beam of sunlight burst around the alleyway. It blundered and dissipated into the faint blue sky as mutated clouds filled the sky. Their shadows outlined their features, the misshapen faces of grey shades stared at Javier. Cold, deep-set eyes took him in, as he moved over.

Hackneyed, he huffed from his pipe after he had found comfort lying on a plate of corrugated steel. Sun-soaked metal met with droplets of sweat beading down the back of Javier's neck. He stared out of the alleyway into the main street of Bucket Town. He had been in town for the better half of a week after he had just returned from some important Ranger business. _Raider problems,_ he thought. _Always raiders._ Javier was all too familiar with raider problems and raider issues, but he supposed that was behind him now. He was in a chem haven, after all.

The Torch, that he oh-so cherished at that moment, was bought from a local dealer who had a monopoly on that sort of thing in the area. Torch was his favorite of all the diverse chems and drugs in the Southern Wasteland. An ugly shit colored powder, it may have looked unpleasant but it felt like it was made by the gods to appease their followers. Glad to partake in it, he realized at that moment, he had gone months without it.

_What's wrong with you?_ He asked himself. Words came to mind, an addict always repeats. Gnawing the end of the clay pipe, he kept it between his teeth. Safe and secure. Wormy wisps of Torch smoke pecked at the eyes of Javier as he decided that he needed to pay a little visit to a friend. He packed up all his material goods into his backpack; his hatchet, his leftover torch, and all those other unimportant things like food and water. Maybe he should've done this earlier instead of spending days smoking and toking alone. He was in short supply of friends after all, and having been out and about for weeks probably didn't help his friendship with Max. And Eli. . . _fucking Eli._

Bucket Town had grown since he had last been, not by much, but it was noticeable. He passed by the several metal shacks, as he staggered away towards the edge of the town. Clusters of tents were like lesions to the town square, all full of his and his kind. Caravan drivers cracked their reins as redskin Brahmin plodded about, with their wares safely carried in their wooden carriages. Junkies roamed the streets, feasting from the cornucopia of chems while some of the local militia patrolled the square. Bounty hunters and mercenaries ran about as well. All wanting glory, power, or worse. All too colorful a place, he figured. But moving through the town was easy, he followed the main road that run north and south from the town square. It was an old road, remnant of the world that once was, back and back and back. It's black and cracked asphalt had brought many memories back. Far beyond the reach of any mortal hand, the road stretched to the horizon, where the sky kissed the earth. And that was where he was to find his ol' friend.

The tent city congested the outside of town, but as he wandered further and further along the track they became sparse and only outliers remained. It would take some while, and but then the road would be empty. The tents will be gone. The clatter and collision of voices and wares would fade into the sound of wind, silence, and the sunbeams that cascaded down.

  
  
It was an odd thing, his friend's home and hideout. Steel claws interlocked in a violent embrace, metal melted and mended into metal. Another corpse in a sea of the dead, another mighty remnant of the old world. Grandiosely, Max has built himself a home in the wreckage of two great monsters, "tractor-trailers" as the Austrian often said. Well, the tractor-trailers were upturned. The unfortunate result of some archaic accident, causing the shell of the tractor-trailers to meld together. He approached it, taking the old sights and sounds and. . . smells. Dead flesh. Definitely Max. At the end of the massive wreck, the main entrance was there. Two metal doors hanged sideways from the semi-trailer, a note was scratched on the top side of the door. _DOKTOR._

Heavy-handedly, he yelled as pounded a hard fist into the metal, "Max! It's Javier! Ya know. . ." He sighed and sputtered it out embarrassed. "Tangcrowe." But there was nothing but silence and the stark scent of terrible things. Now there could be many things that might have happened. Max may just be out. Max could just be somewhere killing junkies. Or Max could be hiding in the shadows waiting for the chance to jump out and scare the brown off of Javier. _I wonder which?_ He thought to himself, his sarcasm fell on deaf ears. With a slight shove, the metal doors gave way, flattening against the roof and floor. Dusty air emerged from the semi-trailer, it seemed thick and heavy with heat. Snuffing out his pipe remorsefully and he entered.

Nothing but the sound of his soles against the steel accompanied him, as he continued down the long corridor that was Max's house. He always collected the weirdest of things, as he passed dusty books of medicine and cooking, human bones, and a table full of empty whiskey bottles or two. Hm, he could see his face off the glass. Interesting. Light guided his path, filtering through the dust as it reached out into the section of the wreckage that Max used as a bedroom.

"Now, Max. You better be asleep, cause if you're going to scare me again. Well, do you remember what happened last time? Right? You haven't gone all feral, now have you?" There was certainly a slumbering figure in the midsts of scattered blankets and canvases that covered Max's sandbag mattress. The blankets that covered the mass rose and fell as the rasp of slumbering breaths came and went, Javier wasted no time in uncovering it. "C'mon, Max. It's Jav-" A squeal came as a slender forearm sliced through the air as the blankets on the bed rustled and fluttered away. Tangled in bedsheets, Eli fell face first unto the floor. His wide-brimmed red trimmed hat, that he always kept on his body, floated with a drift of the desert air.

He coughed as he stiffly curled, his hands clenched against his belly as he cooed softly, the hints of his accent bleeding out. "Oh. . . my stomach. . . You. . . you bastard, you almost killed me. Me?! A lowly humble denizen of the desert! O' and lo' the disaster? How will I be able to work, now?"

"Well, you might wanna work on your acting skills first, Eli. But, please enlighten me, why are you sleeping in Max's bed? Doesn't he, ya know, like his privacy?"

"If he liked his privacy, you wouldn't be barging into his home, now would you?"

"I still don't remember the last time Max ever wanted a roommate. Let alone consistent human interaction that doesn't involve somebody dying."

"And exactly why do you care, Crowe? I thought you set up a nest back over west. With all those pretentious pricks who call themselves 'Rangers', flying rats who think they are eagles. And now I see, you've flown back? And why's that?" He spoke with vile resentment. 

"You're getting cheesier by the second, Toppins." Leaning down, he wrapped his hand around the scant wrist of the youth named Eli. He pulled him up, with a smirk. "We both have questions for the other, so might as well get them answer. But you go first."

"And why should I?" Eli spat out, before Javier loosened his grip and Eli found himself on the floor again.

"Did that loosen your lips?" Javier smirked as Eli murmured something about Crowe's mother. Elijah "Eli" Toppins the II was a slender man, tall as well. He had a handsome, self-indulged, and self-obsessed face with aquiline features. His deep eyes were as murky green as the swamps of his homeland, Louisiana a.k.a. Swamper country. With black hair that he slicked back and an uncaring crooked smile. He wasn't wearing much, but Eli tried to smooth out the creases and pat out the dust from his thin red long sleeved shirt. But he didn't have any pants on. Though Javier paused for a time to thank the Lord Almighty that he was wearing underwear at least.

Picking himself up as clumsy as he always was, he puffed up his chest and raised his chin. Seeing that Eli's face was flushed and his little doctor _amada_ wasn't here, Crowe assumed him to be fuming as he crossed his arms and answered. "That was extremely rude, Crowe. I thought that all this time hanging around civilized folk would temper you."

"Listen, I'm going to save us both several hours of arguing and just gonna say; i'm back, don't question it; wheres Max?"

"Off. All I know is that he's recently taken on more of those bounties that we used to do." Eli picked up his hat and rested it tilted on his hair. "That keeps him busy during the day, so that I can lounge about here. Now, please leave. And close the door. You know how I loathe the sun. . . and the heat." Javier watched as Toppins backed up to the bed, slumped down and went back to sleep. His hat was tilted so that his face was enveloped by it. But that didn't matter as Javier shut the door and gave Eli the darkness he yearned for.

He knew exactly where to go to now that Eli had the decency to share a word or two about Max's whereabouts. Maximilian Gersten VIII was simply, amiably, and most honorably a ghoul. He was also Crowe's first true friend in Bucket Town. It was a hot summer day, a long while past (several months ago, actually) that Javier took his skill at murder to good use and took up a bounty. Max had thought of the same thing. One thing led to another and now Maximilian was calling themselves the Dangerous Duo. A little tribal came along, one day, and they became the Triple Threat Trio. Than Eli showed up as well, and they became the B-Team. But ever since Glides had left them, they had split up.

The Sheriff's office was on the north side of town and relatively easy to find, Javier having burnt it into his memory. It was a shrunken shack, yet sturdy with it's scrap metal walls. Flanked by ranks upon ranks of wooden crosses and stone gravestones, he had dug some of those graves and planted their inhabitants in the grounds once. He had probably even put a bullet or a hatchet in some of them as well. Emblazoned above the doorway of the Sheriff's place was a crude star, more yellow than gold. Black letters in a messy hand spoke "FCSD."

He entered the door, as he found himself in a small lobby. Dobbs was manning the front desk of the Sheriff's office, they greeted each other with a curt, brief nod. "Javier." Dobbs was a lieutenant for Roy the Sheriff. He was a lithe man, slenderly built with dark skin and black hair. "So, what business do ya have here, friend?"

"Max."

"Oh. The ghoul. He came for a bounty the other day. The rotting bastard was lucky enough to have a special little bounty." Roy's boy went through several papers, each a bounty with a contract attached. His fingers slid and flicked a single paper out of the stack, Javier's deft hands snatched it quickly. He felt a churning in his stomach as he looked back up at Dobbs. He looked back at the bounty and the drawing that was attached, his eyes pecked at the victim. Quickly, he signed adjacent to Max's signature, leaving his name in messy hand before he ran out of the building.

Dirt and dust was kicked up as he jogged across Bucket Town in his hurry, and now he was fully sober and regretting it. His joints ached, there was acid in his muscles, and he stiffened liked stone as he moved. He didn't need this, now. Not when the genius of Gersten was in danger of being released unto the wasteland, especially when he's up to taking a bounty such as this one. They were hunting a phantom, he was nowhere near them. But if Javier knew Max, and he did, he knew that that feral bastard was going to get himself killed.

Against a haze of fading sunlight, a scarlet sun stood as the sky began to wan. Far on the other side of the horizon, surrounded by a green fog, a pale new moon blossomed. He found the hours had passed when he reached Max's house. In his haste, he threw the doors open. Metal screaming as old hinges strained. Eli was sound asleep, but at least when he wouldn't complain about the heat of the desert and sun rays getting into his eyes.

Toppins looked peaceful, even though his limbs were sprawled across the burlap and sheets. A thin line of spittle ran from his mouth ajar, and his hair had stiffened against the bed. Truly, this was the man who claimed to be the smartest and smoothest man on this side of the Mississippi River. Eli didn't weigh much, and that was good as Javier hefted him up by the shoulders and spat into his eyes. This awakening seemed a bit more sedated. His jade eyes flickered back to life as he tried to brush away the saliva with a disgusted face and butterfly kisses.

"WHAT THE HELL!" He screamed, but Crowe said nothing as he shoved him behind. Startled, spit-covered, and silent, Eli's emerald eyes asked the question. _What's happening?_

"Pack your things. Ready your rifle. Max is hunting a little tribal friend of ours."


End file.
